Such A Strong Word
by ScarletVampyre
Summary: Because love isn't always romantic and tender and heartwarming. It's bitter and painful and destructive. SiriusRemus. Slash, noncon.


**A/N:** I present to you, dear reader, the first piece of writing i decided to share.

**Warnings:** Slash, noncon.

**Because love isn't always romantic and tender and heart-warming. It's bitter and painful and destructive.**

**Such A Strong Word**

The Gryffindor common room is empty – it's late, you presume everyone is already in bed. You're curled up in an armchair beside the roaring fire, sleepily reading a book, and something close to peacefulness is spreading through you. You don't know where _he_ is but you hope to God he's already gone to bed.

Then you feel fingers on the back of your neck and your blood is ice. You clumsily drop the book you had been reading only moments before, the pages creasing as it slips to the floor, all the while trying not to shiver as he strokes his hand down your neck and tucks his fingers under the collar of your shirt. You're surprised when you feel his lips brush against your skin and he softly kisses his way over your neck and down your throat.

Against your better judgement you tilt your head back so he can reach you better from where he stands, leaning over the back of the chair you're curled in. You give a little more of yourself to him. Because you're naïve enough to think that tonight will be different, that tonight he won't mean the things he does to you, that maybe tonight it won't happen.

Then you smell the liquor on his breath.

Your stomach plummets and you notice your fingers are gripping the arms of the chair as a familiar feeling – a mixture of fear and hopelessness – begins to rise in your chest and you suddenly realise how difficult it is to breathe. Then he's tugging at your shoulders, trying to pull you to your feet, and you aren't foolish enough to disobey. Not after last time.

And his lips are against yours and his tongue is in your mouth and his hands are in places they really shouldn't be. Then he pulls back and for a moment - one wild, blissful moment - you think he may be done, that that's all he wants tonight. But then his hand is clamped around your upper arm and he's steering you towards the dormitory stairs. At the top of the spiral staircase you manage to pause and you turn to him.

"Sirius, please…" is all you can choke out because there's already a lump in your throat even though it's far too soon to be upset. He stares at you; his eyes, though slightly unfocused, are burning with a black fire.

"Get in the fucking room," he hisses and roughly shoves you over the threshold. He pushes you across the dormitory and you stumble back against his bed, falling down onto the scarlet bedclothes. He's quick to follow, jerking the curtains shut, and you hear him whispering, knowing he's casting a Silencing Charm, even though you learnt long ago that your yelled protests just serve to increase his fury.

His mouth crashes against yours and once more his tongue is thrust inside and you fleetingly wonder if he notices you're not kissing back. His hands are sliding all over your body; across your flat chest, down over the subtle hollow of your stomach, against the sharp jut of your hipbones, coming to rest between your thighs. He's straddling you, his weight pressing down on your thin frame, making so you wouldn't be able to move even if you had the guts to.

Then he moves his hands and begins to roughly undress you, tugging at the buttons of your shirt and yanking it down over your shoulders. He absently reaches up and pulls his own T-shirt over his head before he attacks your throat, kissing and sucking the pale skin before biting down, hard, and you know he'll leave purple bruises that tomorrow you will hide beneath a high-necked jumper.

Now his hands are at your waist and he's unbuttoning your fly. You're stupid enough to desperately whisper, "Don't", and his fist collides with the side of your face before he unceremoniously drags your pants and underwear down over your hips. He shifts his position then, kneeling between your legs and he pushes down his own pants.

Somehow the bedcovers have ended up in a heap at the foot of the bed and both his and your clothes are strewn on the floor. You desperately wish you could hide yourself. But now he's staring down at you, an ugly and threatening leer on his face, and you can see his eyes tracing the countless scars criss-crossing your body.

"Fucking werewolf," he murmurs and you close your eyes to prevent the tears from spilling. This is the part that hurts the most, the things he hisses to you with a mixture of fascination and disgust on his face.

He's forcing your legs apart, spreading them wide, and you feel so dirty, lying before him like a cheap whore. He brings his hips closer and his erection rubs against you as he pins your wrists above your head, even though it's not as if you'd fight back. Then suddenly he jerks his hips and he slams into you, hard and fast. You can't stop yourself from crying out as a sharp, burning pain spreads between your legs. He pulls out and then thrusts back in and if anything it's more painful than the last time. Your eyes are squeezed tightly shut yet tears are still leaking out and rolling down your cheeks.

It wasn't always like this.

He used to tell you he loved you and you had willingly given yourself to him, letting him take your heart, your virginity, your entire being. You were his and somehow you knew he was yours. It used to be soft and gentle; you'd make love on quiet afternoons when the sun would stream in through the dormitory windows, while at night you'd curl up together and sometimes lie awake until dawn, softly whispering to each other.

But somewhere something started to go wrong. At first it was only the odd time this would happen; he'd be drunk when he came to you, his hands rough and the look in his eyes making you scared. Then it started to happen more often and now it's practically every night – and somehow you can't refuse him. In the soft light of morning it's hard to believe he does those things to you, especially when you're not entirely sure what it is he's doing.

_Rape_ is such a strong word.

You can hear him moaning as he moves inside you and you think you hear him gasp your name. You can still feel the searing pain between your legs and it's ominously slippery when he slides in and out, but your heart is numb and it feels as though you're watching from terribly far away. His mouth is against your ear and you suddenly realise he's whispering to you.

"Do you love me, Moony?" he murmurs between thrusts.

"Yes." You gasp the word you know he wants to hear.

"Tell me," he moans, breathing quickly. "Tell me you love me."

You try not to sob as you whisper, "I love you, Sirius." He groans and buries his face against your neck, and a moment later you feel a wet heat spreading deep inside you. He goes very still, the only sound his rapid breathing and the beating of your heart, then he pulls out of you. As he turns away to clean himself up, you half-sit up and look down at the sheets and between your legs. Even in the dark you can see the blood.

Then he turns back to you and lies down and there's something terrifying about the way he's looking expectantly at you but you still crawl into his waiting arms and rest your head on his chest. He rubs your back and runs one hand through your hair.

"I love you, too," he says softly. It's always like this afterwards. He holds you and soothes you and though he never once says _Sorry_ you think that he is. And you let yourself be drawn in, because you do love him, and you fool yourself that everything will be alright. And somehow it is.

Until tomorrow night when he reaches for you again.

**Peractio**


End file.
